


Andy, you're a star

by holograms



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Experimental Style, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 05:57:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4510452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>but the problem with being the Best at something: you have keep proving it</p>
            </blockquote>





	Andy, you're a star

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this prose is "experimental", to say the least. I've thought about doing this for a long time, ever since I listened to The Killers' "Andy You're a Star" again recently and was like huh, that could be about Andrew Neiman (that song of which the title of the fic is from).
> 
> Any grammar/punctuation errors are intentional (except for the ones that aren't and I actually did make a mistake, but only I will know, haha).

nobody calls him  
Andy. not even  
his dad,  
with him there's no familiar and friendly nickname,  
he's just  
Andrew.

 

Fletcher tries it once; it  
not so much as slips out  
as it is a calculated method to make himself more  
_obligatory_  
to Andrew. "Andy," Fletcher says,  
and they both know  
_immediately_  
that it isn't  
right—  
  
  
and Fletcher may call him a lot of things:

  * dipshit
  * a waste of oxygen
  * pillow-biting faggot
  * fucking dumbass
  * Neiman
  * the bane of my existence
  * my Charlie Parker
  * my Bird
  * _mine_



but  
n e v e r  
_Andy._  
  
  
  
another time, a  
year after  
The Performance  
(that time needs no further descriptor)  
(that time that changed everything, when andrew relinquished himself to him;  
signed his soul away  
willingly  
and he  
watched  
as Fletcher  
took it  
and crushed it in his fists  
until there was  
nothing recognizable left —  
— but Fletcher's sure to not leave his  
Star drummer  
shapeless. he manufactures him  
anew  
and andrew  
_lets him_ ,  
lets him rattle around in his head until he's immune and  
lets him lead him around like property,  
because he's his creation,  
a messed-up jazz frankenstein —  
  
  
("frankenstein was the doctor," Fletcher had said  
when andrew told him this,  
and all andrew could say was, "even more fitting."))  
  
  
he dares to say it again.  
  
  
  
he says, "consider being Andy.  
it's snappy  
and easy on the tongue.  
people might remember you better."  
  
  
a beat, then Fletcher says it with a shrug,  
a pseudo christening.  
"Andy Neiman."  
  
  
  
for a moment andrew thinks about it—  
he does have a point,  
it's a nice even rhythm of  
_one-two-three-four_  
broken across dissected syllables,  
like the never ending  
drum  
beat  
in his head, and it doesn't have the  
muddled drag of  
And _rew._  
  
  
  
but no,  
he's **Andrew** , with the wild and astonished  
_ooooooo_  
at the end and not the almost screeching _eeeee_ of An _dy_  
(and he is not made for the neat package of a  
compact and kindling name). he will be known as  
Andrew,  
his name one of the last few things he has that's truly  
his own.  
  
  
  
andrew gets what he wants,  
sort of,  
but the problem with being the Best at something:  
you have to keep proving it. he worries that  
maybe  
he's hit the top!  
but the rest is a steady decline  
down.  
  
  
  
he struggles  
with it. Fletcher is  
no help.  
  
  
  
when the bald-headed bastard is particularity mean  
he says,  
"you're a star in everybody's eyes but mine,"  
knowing that will cut him the  
deepest. but he's  
wrong wrong wrong  
andrew knows,  
he's appreciated him (in more ways than one,  
he's invited him  
too  
close  
for comfort, and every so often  
he has to shove andrew away).  
  
  
  
andrew tries not to think of how he can't see where  
plain appreciation and  
abuse  
begin to blur  
(but was it ever clear?). but  
when he does think about it  
he reaches for that  
awful beautiful  
fine white substance  
that makes things okay for a while.  
  
  
he will, that is,  
until it kills him.  
  
  
  
Andrew thinks of something he heard once,  
that your body replaces its cells  
every seven years. regeneration. he thinks about how  
eventually  
they'll come a time  
when there won't be  
a single part  
of him left  
to represent how he was _before_.  
  
  
  
and then he thinks that's okay.  
if he even makes it those  
seven years  
he can't, _won't_  
go back to before.  
  
as if  
that  
could ever be a  
choice.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah I KNOW his uncle called him Andy at awkward family dinner scene but shhhhhhh they're irrelevant anyway
> 
> thanks for reading! feedback is always appreciated :)


End file.
